After the End
by Nearing Midnight
Summary: Their powers are fading, and Crowley worries. (Aziraphale/Crowley pre-slash, sickfic, post-canon)
1. first movement

**Note**: Warning for panic attacks and a brief, non-graphic description of involuntary self-harm.

I wrote this with bookverse Aziraphale and Crowley in mind, but this also easily works with the new TV show canon. You can also find this fic on Ao3 under my username laegolas.

Thanks for reading! Reviews are always much appreciated.

* * *

Sunny weather never did last long in England, at least not in regions that lay outside of one Tadfield, Oxfordshire. So it was that on the seventh day of the rest of their lives, a week after the Apocalypse-that-wasn't, it began to rain, and rain heavily, at that. Not quite as heavily as it had some thousand years ago, in an incident involving an ark that so reeked of animal refuse that even certain beings that didn't strictly need to breathe were gagging on it, but hard enough that Londoners glanced up at the veritable waterfall tumbling down from Up There and decided today was a day best spent indoors.

In a newly-restored bookshop in Soho, curled up among the ratty cushions of an ancient sofa, Crowley peered gloomily out the window of the shop's back room. He had never been fond of this sort of weather, but it seemed that these past few days, he felt the chill even more keenly than usual. He huddled deeper into the blanket draped around his shoulders and resisted the urge to shudder. He was almost cold enough to seriously consider donning one of Aziraphale's thick tartan cardigans that lay scattered around the bookshop. Almost.

As if the thought had been a summons, the floorboards creaked behind him. He stiffened.

"Crowley?" a hoarse voice called. "Is that you sitting there in the dark?"

Crowley let out a long, slow breath and didn't turn around. "In here, angel. What are you doing out of bed?"

"I could ask you the same thing, my dear boy," Aziraphale sighed, though there was no censure in it. Fabric rustled, then a faint cough came from the armchair to Crowley's left. He chanced a sideways glance. Aziraphale, at least, looked better than he had last night, though his dark curls drooped as though they, too, were tired, and Crowley wasn't sure he liked the feverish brightness to Aziraphale's eyes.

Aziraphale caught his gaze before he could look away, and wordlessly, a soft hand reached out and brushed Crowley's. Crowley flushed, but he gripped Aziraphale's hand back and held on, tightly.

"Your skin is like ice," Aziraphale said, faintly disapproving.

"I have tea," Crowley said, somewhat uselessly, indicating the cup and saucer sitting on the table before them. The tea had long since gone cold, and unthinkingly, he waved a hand to heat it up. But instead of steaming instantly, the teacup only rattled in a distressed manner, and Crowley hissed and hunched over the sudden cramp in his side. "_Agh_, bless it."

Aziraphale was suddenly in front of him, pushing Crowley back into the sofa cushions. "Don't strain yourself. I'll go brew us some more."

With the flick of a switch, a nearby lamp sputtered to life, and Crowley winced. Aziraphale murmured an apology, focused on arranging the tea-tray with hands that shook ever so slightly. Crowley wanted to tell the angel to go sit down, but his unwise attempt at miracling had left him light-headed and none-too-confident at his own steadiness.

"It's been a whole week already, angel," Crowley said, glaring at the ring of condensation left on the table's faded wood. "My powers should be restored by now. They've never been drained for so long before."

"You kept the Bentley in one piece when it was on fire, and drove all the way from the M25 to the Tadfield airbase through sheer willpower alone," Aziraphale's voice floated out from the adjacent kitchen. "Such a feat would strain anyone. Patience is a virtue, my dear."

"If you know so much about it, why don't you miracle up some tea yourself instead of making it from scratch?" Crowley muttered. He regretted the words as soon as he said them, but the clinking of porcelain in the kitchen only paused momentarily before resuming.

"I didn't use nearly as many miracles as you did," Aziraphale said thoughtfully as he returned with the tea-tray, as though he were discussing an abstract literary question and not the absence of something that made up the very essence of their beings. "All the same, I never had to possess so many bodies before in a single day, so perhaps it has something to do with that."

He didn't say _discorporation_, but Crowley still flinched and tried not to recall the smell of burning paper.

Aziraphale set the tray down on the table, but stumbled when he tried to straighten up, much to Crowley's alarm. He caught himself on his armchair before Crowley could react further, but his face was pulled in renewed discomfort when he fell more than sat in his seat.

"In all likelihood, it could have something to do with… this, as well." Aziraphale gestured tiredly at his worn dressing-gown and general state of dishevelled malaise. He smiled wryly at Crowley before he had to turn away and cough into his handkerchief, though Crowley could see nothing at all funny about the situation.

"That's hardly a comforting answer, angel. Our lot aren't supposed to get sick."

"And our lot aren't supposed to interfere with the Great Plan, and yet here we are." Aziraphale pointed out when he caught his breath. He shifted and folded his hands primly in his lap in an all-too familiar movement. "It's —"

"If you even think about saying 'ineffable', I'm going to spill tea on you," Crowley grumbled, snatching up a cup to emphasize his point. Aziraphale merely smiled again, leaned back into his armchair, and closed his eyes. With that, the subject was closed, though Crowley had no doubt it would be rehashed yet again sooner rather than later, as it had been all week.

Crowley sipped hot tea and Aziraphale hummed something that sounded suspiciously like an off-key rendition of "I Want to Break Free", though he would likely never admit to it. The rain pattered on, the faint endless roll of a distant snare drum.

Then there was an explosion in the street outside the bookshop.

Crowley jumped and spilled tea down the collar of his rumpled pyjama shirt. Dimly he heard the teacup crack against the floor and felt the liquid's scalding burn against his skin, but it barely registered as his eyes darted around the bookshop, seeking out potential weapons, exits, ways to hide, anything. They could leave through the back door and double back through the alleyway, though there was no telling if they were already surrounded or not. With both of them weakened and drained of their usual powers, they could hardly fend off anything larger than a cat at the moment, and flying was out of the question in such weather even if they had enough magic left to manifest their wings — Someone knew they could run as hard and as fast and as far as they could, but they would never be able to hide from their pursuers forever —

"Crowley. Crowley!" Somebody had seized his shoulders, stopping him from rising and bolting out the door. Crowley, slitted pupils blown wide and unseeing in his panic, nearly lashed out at the hands that gripped him, but there was no cursed dagger plunging into his chest, nor the white-hot burn of an angelic smiting enveloping his body. He subsided, confused and panting, and gradually became aware of a slightly blurry yet familiar face held inches away from his own, grey eyes peering at him anxiously.

"What — what was —" Crowley managed to stammer, gulping around a suddenly dry throat.

"A truck backfiring, nothing more," Aziraphale said instantly, sliding his hands down from Crowley's shoulders to his forearms when he saw he had Crowley's attention. Crowley gripped back desperately.

"I was sssure it was — angel, I thought —"

"None of that, now," Aziraphale said firmly, though he gave Crowley's arm a soothing pat. Crowley may have been more embarrassed, but was too dizzy with sudden panic followed by sudden relief to care. "Breathe for me first, my dear. Can you do that for me?"

When the room stopped spinning, Crowley found that Aziraphale had settled on the sofa beside him and wrapped a knitted blanket around them both. He stared down at his hands clenched together, knuckles white. He didn't even realize that his fingernails were digging deep into his skin until Aziraphale carefully pulled his hands apart.

"I thought it was our… our people, come to get us." Crowley breathed in deeply, which failed to settle his nerves. "To deal with us at last."

"Adam promised we would be left alone," Aziraphale said quietly, leaning into Crowley's side and steadying his shaking fingers. "We have yet to find any reason to doubt his word."

Crowley traced the back of Aziraphale's hand. It was a comfortingly familiar sight; smooth, unbroken skin, neatly manicured nails, a warm dark brown against his own tawny skin. Soft as ever, though perhaps slightly dry without the religious application of its usual lotions, as both of them had spent more time asleep in bed than not**¹** these past few days without the energy to do much else.

[**¹ **and only asleep, though they might've been more disappointed about that fact had they not been so tired.]

"Just think about it. Only a week ago, we did the unthinkable and disrupted the Great War that our sides have been planning for millennia. Sure, most of it was Adam's work, but it's not like anyone can touch him. We're the next best thing, the ones who encouraged his efforts. We interfered from the start, after all." Crowley shrugged miserably and burrowed deeper into their shared blanket. "So we meddle, and then we don't hear a peep from any of our superiors, nor any of our coworkers, for that matter. Complete radio silence. But we haven't got off scot-free, because our powers are… _fading_, somehow, and you've become ill on top of it. When have you ever heard of an angel or demon falling ill?"

"My dear —" Aziraphale began, but Crowley glared him into silence.

"Don't try to pretend this isn't ssstrange," he snapped. The slight burns on his chest from the spilled tea ached, and he rubbed furiously at the scalded skin. "I'm sssurprised you're not more freaked out than I am. We can't miracle things anymore, and we're succumbing to, to _mortal_ ailments, and we haven't had so much as a voicemail or strongly-worded note from either Hell or Heaven despite having committed the equivalent of high treason. Angels have Fallen and demons been destroyed for far less. But the only thing that's happened to us is this — this slow diminishing. We have no past record of anything like this happening because _such a thing has never happened before_, not since God Herself created the first angels. It's almost like — like we're somehow becoming—"

The word shrivelled and died before it could leave his lips. He had held this thought, unvoiced, for days, ever since Aziraphale had first awoken with a fever five nights previous, ever since Crowley had reached into his reserves of power to miracle himself a new set of clothes, and found himself gasping on his hands and knees on the floor of the bookshop, feeling like the very breath in his lungs was being sucked out of him by a high-pressure hoover. But now that he dared to voice the notion aloud, he couldn't say it.

In the end, he didn't need to.

"Like we're becoming human?"

Crowley's head shot up, and he gaped at Aziraphale's calm expression.

"I won't pretend the possibility hasn't crossed my mind," Aziraphale sighed. His breath caught around a cough, and Crowley hastily thrust a cup of thankfully-still-warm tea into his hands, careful not to spill any again. Aziraphale smiled in thanks, and Crowley averted his eyes.

"I will point out, however, that our powers haven't completely gone," Aziraphale continued, studying the elegant pattern etched into the china. "We can still perform minor miracles, even if it takes more effort than it usually does." His brow furrowed in concentration, and Crowley realized too late what he was trying to do when Aziraphale suddenly sagged against him. Alarmed, Crowley caught his shoulder and propped him up, but sure enough, the sting from the burns on his chest had disappeared, and he had no doubt that if he looked, the skin would be wholly unmarked.

"Angel," Crowley said, aghast, but Aziraphale, despite his wince, merely observed his handiwork through Crowley's unbuttoned shirt-front with a self-satisfied air.

"See? Miracle accomplished," Aziraphale said, a tad too smugly in Crowley's opinion. Crowley glared and tried to ignore the growing heat in his cheeks.

Aziraphale sipped his tea. "My point being: we haven't lost everything. Our current situation is unprecedented, yes, but if I'm not mistaken, most of our experiences together have been. Our Arrangement has lasted this long without consequence, and we've survived in this world together for even longer. Nothing has happened to us yet."

For all of Aziraphale's confident tone, his hand stole back over to Crowley's side, a silent question. Crowley let out a slow breath and took it. While certain gestures between humans can get lost in translation — two winking Satanic nuns during a baby-swap eleven years ago may come to mind — neither Aziraphale nor Crowley were human**²**, and they had the advantage of six thousand years' acquaintance with each other's idiosyncrasies and mannerisms to boot. As a result, they had become modest experts in deciphering each other's body language; not perfect by any means, but more than adequate for quiet moments like these.

[**²** at least as far as they were aware, given their current conversation.]

Aziraphale's extended hand had meant, _I'm as frightened as you are, my dear, but I want to hope for the best, the way you've taught me to all these long years. I don't know what will happen to us, but I _will_ stay by your side, come what may._

And with his answering squeeze, Crowley had replied,_ I know, angel. Me, too._

Aziraphale's hand was cold, and Crowley found himself in the unusual position of having to rub warmth into Aziraphale's fingers rather than the other way 'round. He wasn't sure how well he succeeded, being cold-blooded and all, but Aziraphale made a quiet sound of contentment.

"I worry about what might happen if Above or Below do end up calling," Crowley admitted. "Without our powers, we can't possibly hope to fight them off, or escape for long. What are our chances?"

"Abysmal, I would say," Aziraphale mused, "but even at our full strength, we couldn't possibly survive a confrontation against all the forces of Heaven and Hell combined. So our chances are about the same, either way."

It wasn't funny, but Crowley let out a bark of laughter. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, angel."

Aziraphale looked at him suddenly, and his eyes were piercing. "Is that why you were sitting alone down here in the first place?"

"What?"

"To stand guard, or something of that sort."

Crowley fidgeted. "Um."

"Oh, my dear." Aziraphale's voice was soft, and it hurt to hear. "We can't keep looking over our shoulders forever. That's no way to live."

Crowley turned away, a bitter taste rising in his throat. "Can you blame me?" he said lowly, wanting to be angry but too tired to summon up the energy. "Only way to survive in Hell is to stay vigilant. It's kept me alive all these years. I know it's futile now, without enough strength in me to even heat a sodding cup of tea, but you can't blame me for trying, even if it might seem cowardly to you."

"That isn't what I meant and you know it," Aziraphale said, sounding hurt, and Crowley fell silent. The rain pattered ceaselessly against the windows and roof of the bookshop, and somewhere far in the distance, thunder rumbled. Then Aziraphale patted his hand, which had grown slack in his grip, and Crowley sighed and shuffled closer, resting his head on Aziraphale's shoulder.

"I know Adam said we wouldn't be bothered," he said into Aziraphale's dressing-gown. "But I can't help but worry that all this, our powers, your illness… what if it's all part of some scheme concocted by Above or Below to incapacitate us so they can nab us all the more easily? Or maybe it's some sort of punishment, that we're condemned to turn human, and grow old, and die. At least humans can hope for redemption, but Someone knows what'll happen to us after that."

Warm, dry lips pressed against Crowley's forehead. "I wish I had a more definitive answer for the two of us. But even so… would being human really be all that bad?"

Crowley jolted upright and he stared at Aziraphale, disbelievingly.

"No more wiling or thwarting. No more superiors hovering at our backs. No more bargaining for human souls — and I know how much you dislike having to meddle with them, my dear, just as much as I do," Aziraphale persisted. "No more frivolous miracles either, I suppose, or centennial paychecks," Aziraphale made a face, which Crowley supposed was at the thought of having to actually sell his books in order to make a living, "but that also means no more constant orders from up high — or down below, in your case."

The wind howled outside the bookshop, and rattled the panes of the window in the back room. Neither of the two human-shaped beings nestled together on the sofa inside noticed.

"Freedom," Crowley said eventually. "Free _will_."

"Free will," Aziraphale agreed softly, brushing a hand gently against Crowley's cheek. "Not a bad retirement, after working for so long."

Crowley closed his eyes and breathed in — a wholly human habit, and one of many that he and the angel had picked up over the years. The miasma of illness clung to Aziraphale's clothes, but further beneath that lay the unique smell that was purely _Aziraphale_; old books and warm cocoa, wool sweaters and downy pillows. The scent of home.

Then Aziraphale jerked away, and Crowley started in shock until he realized Aziraphale was coughing hard into his handkerchief. The fit lasted longer than the others, and there was a slight wheeze to his breath when, several nervewrackingly long moments later, he finally subsided. Crowley, no longer trying to mask his worry, touched the back of his hand to Aziraphale's forehead before Aziraphale batted him away.

"I think your fever's back, angel. You should rest."

Aziraphale looked mutinous, but the downward cant of his lips communicated reluctant acceptance, which showed Crowley just how poorly he was really feeling.

"Only if you join me," Aziraphale said. He held up a hand when Crowley tried to protest. "Please, Crowley. You're recovering too, and you won't be able to help anyone if you fall over later. We've done all we can, and now we can only wait. Whatever happens to us now is in the hands of God — and, well, Adam."

And Crowley should have insisted, should have stood his ground and continued his nocturnal watch, but he was still cold despite the blanket, and miserable, and exhausted from prolonged worry, and if he were fully honest with himself, he wanted nothing more than to bury his face in a pillow and take another century-long nap. He accepted Aziraphale's hand up off the sofa, then steadied Aziraphale in turn when he was overtaken with another jag of coughing. Slowly, leaning on one another, guiding with gentle touches and careful glances, they made their way up the creaking stairs, through the threshold, and into Aziraphale's bed, which was old and worn like all of Aziraphale's belongings, but a sanctuary nonetheless.

Aziraphale dropped off almost immediately, much to Crowley's relief. He brushed the sweat-soaked curls off Aziraphale's forehead, and remembered the touch of chaste lips against his own brow. Soon, they would have to discuss this new, unnamed thing that had risen between them, as they would have to discuss tonight's conversation, and their uncertain future. But right now, there were only the warm bed-covers, the steady swish of raindrops against the window, and Aziraphale's face slackened and relaxed in sleep, the exhausted bruises beneath his eyes lessened somewhat. Crowley had no doubt he looked just as exhausted. He certainly felt it.

He resisted the urge to groan into his pillow. The warm pull of sleep beckoned to him, but so too did the nightmares of blood and fire, smoke and trumpets, of white feathers smouldering on grey tarmac. As if sensing his distress, Aziraphale shifted closer, draping an arm around Crowley's waist. Crowley sighed shakily and melted into the embrace. With the sheltering blankets enveloping them both, and the patter of rain continuing outside, he could almost imagine that they were back in the Garden, a chilled snake shielded from the storm by an angel's wing.

That suspended moment back in the Beginning was a fond memory, seen through the gently fogged glass of Time. It had been a nice day, he remembered. All those uncomplicated first days had been nice. And while the night had been dark and stormy, he had hopes that the sunrise would disperse the heavy clouds and bring clearer skies with it.

* * *

Crowley's hopes proved to be unfounded, but that's the weather for you. Many a blissful wedding and joyful reunion has taken place on what is otherwise the dreariest of days.

Thus the rain continued, and the sun's re-emergence was unforthcoming. But what did happen was that, three days later, Aziraphale awoke feeling much improved, and beheld the unusual sight of Crowley sitting cross-legged on the mattress beside him, grinning widely enough to give the Cheshire Cat a run for his money.

"Angel, watch this," he said, and furrowed his brow in concentration. It took longer than usual, but between one blink and the next, a teacup and saucer appeared miraculously in his cupped hands. Steam curled gently from the drink's surface.

"I did it three more times while you were asleep," he said proudly. "I think it's getting better at last." He took a pleased sip, then winced at the taste. "Well, it's earl grey and not green tea like I intended, but at least it's palatable."

Aziraphale beamed as he accepted the cup. "It's good tea, no matter the type," he said, and kissed Crowley's cheek.

Crowley curled up at Aziraphale's side, tired yet content. "Are you feeling well enough for a spot of lunch at the Ritz this afternoon?"

Such a trip would mark the first time they had ventured outside the bookshop in over a week. Aziraphale's smile softened as Crowley's eyes, snakish yellow and bright, gazed unhindered into his own. "My dear, I would like nothing better."


	2. second movement

_ii. _

_nine days after the apocalypse_

Crowley awoke with a start to the sound of something clattering out in the hall. It took him a moment to remember where he was, but gradually the worn wooden slats of Aziraphale's bedroom ceiling, shaded greyscale in the dark, came into focus as he stared upwards. Whatever he had been dreaming about was dissipating from his memory like so much smoke in the wind, leaving only a faint queasiness behind. He lay there for a while longer, trying to steady his breathing, before he pushed himself up onto his elbows.

"Aziraphale?" he called, feeling at the still-warm, yet unoccupied spot beside him on the bed. It took another moment, but the door creaked open and Aziraphale shuffled in, clutching a mug and looking sheepish.

"My apologies," he whispered as he set the mug down on the bedside table. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"Well, I'm up now," Crowley said, though he wasn't annoyed, not really. He scooted closer to Aziraphale as the angel slipped beneath the covers, then touched Aziraphale's forehead with the back of his hand before he could protest.

"Really, my dear," Aziraphale sighed. "I'm feeling much better already. You needn't worry so."

"I'm not," Crowley insisted, pushing another pillow behind Aziraphale's back. "But you look tired. What are you doing awake?"

"Just fetching a drink."

"I can see that for myself, thanks." Crowley scrutinized the heavy bags beneath Aziraphale's eyes. "You've been awake for a lot longer than that, though."

Aziraphale slumped against the pillows and closed his eyes. "Oh, all right. I can't sleep, though Heaven knows I tried." He coughed. "Whenever I lie down it's difficult to breathe, but sitting upright makes my head ache." He opened one eye to peer at Crowley before closing it again. "It's a fairly common occurrence among ill humans, or so I'm told."

The thought that neither of them were human in the first place crossed both their minds, and politely went unspoken. Crowley bit his lip. "I could run out and find a chemist's, if you like," he offered. "I'm sure they have some medicine or other that could help. Humans are clever like that."

"But not clever enough to cure the common cold," Aziraphale muttered. Then, more gently, "That won't be necessary, my dear, thank you. It will pass. I simply have to wait it out."

He burrowed into the blankets and turned away from Crowley, though there was a sense of resignation to his movements. Crowley reluctantly slid back beneath the covers and studied Aziraphale's shoulders. The two of them didn't strictly need sleep, of course, but one developed certain routines after living among humanity for thousands of years. For all of Aziraphale's claims that virtue was ever vigilant, he'd taken to sleep like a duck to water once Crowley had introduced the concept to him. Now that Aziraphale was ill, of all the impossible things, he would be feeling the lack sorely.

Ordinarily, Crowley would have miracled some sort of solution and called it a day, but although his own capacity for minor miracles was improving in leaps and bounds, creating things from raw firmament was still beyond him. Neither he nor Aziraphale had taken ill before, and he had little idea of how to care for an unwell person**¹** beyond the vague knowledge that too-high a temperature probably meant bad news.

[**¹** Unwell plants, on the other hand, he was quite familiar with, and he had in fact discreetly published several articles online about identifying the symptoms of leaf rot, bacterial canker, and mite infestations in _sansevieria_. Unfortunately, he was fairly certain that his methods for treating ill plants would be ineffective on Aziraphale. He could hardly yell threats at the angel to grow better, then secretly plant him in the gardens of St James if his health didn't improve, after all.]

Staring at the back of Aziraphale's nightshirt, however, produced a vague idea somewhere at the back of his mind. He leaned over and gave the angel a poke.

"What is it?" Aziraphale sounded tired and irritated, though Crowley tried not to take it personally.

"Do you reckon you have enough power to bring out your wings?"

Aziraphale rolled over and gave Crowley a puzzled look. "Yes, I'd say so," he said after a moment. "But whatever for?"

"Well, the last time we had our wings out was when the world nearly ended. We haven't exactly been able to look at them properly since." Crowley tried not to fidget at Aziraphale's continued steady stare. "I, er, don't think I can bring mine out just yet, still feeling a bit drained, but you're almost recovered, and I thought I could help you. Um. You know."

Aziraphale didn't respond. Crowley backtracked. "You know what, forget I said anything. Shouldn't be asking you to strain yourself so soon and all that. I'll just, er, go back to sleep now —"

Aziraphale said, "Alright," and Crowley's heart sank until Aziraphale closed his eyes, furrowed his brow in concentration, and manifested a pair of massive grey-and-white wings that split through his nightshirt**²** and narrowly avoided striking the ceiling. Crowley yelped, then worriedly patted Aziraphale's face when the angel remained prone, eyes still closed and breathing heavily as though he had just run a mile.

[**²** ordinarily Aziraphale would've preferred to remove his shirt first, but he was too physically tired to move around any more than he needed to, and too magically tired to consider miracling the shirt off on top of summoning the necessary energy to manifest his wings. It had been a rather tiring week in general, come to think of it.]

"No, no, I'm alright." Aziraphale huffed out a breath and pushed himself up with arms that trembled slightly. "Just wasn't expecting how much effort it would take. Not nearly as recovered as I thought, it seems."

"I'm sorry," Crowley said wretchedly. "Thisss was a ssss — a stupid idea, you're unwell and I made you go through all that for nothing—"

"Crowley," Aziraphale interrupted, touching Crowley's wrist. He smiled gently. "I don't mind you grooming my wings, my dear. In fact, I would greatly appreciate it, if you're still up for it. I've never been able to figure out how you can get your feathers to lie so straight."

"S'the only part of me that is. Straight, I mean," was all Crowley could think to say after a stunned silence. He cringed immediately, but Aziraphale only smiled and murmured "thank you" before turning over and laying his wings bare for Crowley to see.

It had been a spontaneous idea, but now that Crowley faced the prospect of actually grooming Aziraphale's wings, he hesitated. They'd seen each other's wings before, of course, and even preened their own feathers in each other's presence on several occasions once the trust between them had solidified**³**, but touching the wings of another was a rarity even among angels⁴. It required a profound trust, and a willingness to put oneself entirely at the mercy of another. Even supposedly benevolent, all-loving angels had trouble dealing with such vulnerability, and the thought of baring one's wings to the Enemy didn't even exist as a concept.

[**³** meaning approximately a week after they first met. Aziraphale had been startled to discover that Crowley even had a human-shaped form in the first place, but he grew accustomed to it soon enough. Crowley, on the other hand, had found it frankly baffling that any occult (or ethereal) being could stand having their wings in as disreputable a state as Aziraphale's, but he was tactful enough not to mention it.]

[⁴ as for demons, well. The thought of Hastur or Ligur getting within an inch of his primary feathers was enough to make Crowley shudder. Though now that he thought of it, he had walked in on the two dukes unexpectedly before on some errand or other, only to find the two of them standing several feet away from each other, looking off in opposite directions, shirts off and glossy feathers scattered suspiciously on the ground. Ligur had always claimed they had been doing a spot of torturing for some other poor demon, but Crowley couldn't think of anyone else with quite the same pattern of bronze stripes on their secondaries as Hastur, who never had so much as a feather out of place during these interrupted "tortures". A healthy dose of sensible terror had prevented Crowley from ever mentioning this, of course. It seemed he never did really talk about wings much, at least not until now.]

Then again, Aziraphale had never been a normal angel, and Crowley hadn't been the ideal demon for some time now, despite his occasional half-hearted efforts.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale craned his neck to peer over his shoulder, concerned. His outstretched wings fluttered in an uncertain fashion, then began to fold as though Aziraphale was preparing to winch them back in. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm good," Crowley managed. "As long as you're, er, okay with it and everything. Just give me a moment."

Aziraphale's wings relaxed and spread out again, and Crowley allowed himself a few unnecessary deep breaths before tentatively reaching out and resting his hands on fluffy white coverts.

They were soft, he noticed immediately. Beautiful as always, for all their slightly dishevelled state. And warm. Perhaps overly warm, and Crowley made a note to persuade the angel to rest for a few days longer until he was more recovered. But this all proved to him that he was actually touching Aziraphale's _wings_. He gently stroked the edge of a long feather, which smoothed beneath his touch. He couldn't remember the last time he had ever touched another being's wings, or had his own wings groomed by another. If he had ever done so as an angel, those memories were long gone. It certainly hadn't happened anytime after his Fall.

The force of long habit kicked in, and Crowley found himself carefully running his fingers through Aziraphale's flight feathers, smoothing over rough spots and straightening misaligned shafts. Aziraphale sighed, a quiet contented sound that immediately sent butterflies flitting every which way in Crowley's stomach.

Any lingering nervousness gradually trickled away the longer Crowley worked. Beneath the sleek outer layer of feathers lay warm downy fluff, softer than anything Crowley had ever felt before. Even further beneath that were muscles and bone, strong and unyielding. Aziraphale had always had a wider wingspan than Crowley, with faint grey dapples breaking through the white that reminded him of a snowy owl. Crowley's own wings were more like a gull's, smaller and more suited for speed than endurance.

"You have so many loose feathers," Crowley said as he carefully tugged a bent feather free. "When was the last time you preened your wings properly?"

Aziraphale hummed. "Some time ago. Can't really recall, to be honest."

"Had your nose too deep in a book to remember, I expect," Crowley teased, giving Aziraphale's coverts a gentle pat. Then he gave into the urge to press his palms deep into the cloud-soft fluff, marvelling yet again at the feel of feathers in his hands. Aziraphale lifted his wings in answer, a cozy half-embrace.

All too soon, Crowley was smoothing down one final primary feather, ensuring the tufted ends lay flat. Even when fully preened, Aziraphale's wings held a vaguely ruffled quality to them, as though he were perpetually windswept. Crowley found that he liked this far better than he liked the thought of Aziraphale's wings being sleeked down with unerring severity, fit to satisfy even Heaven's strictest drill sergeants. Such a look just wasn't _him_. Aziraphale held his wings in the same way he wore his sweaters, valuing comfort over others' expectations. Crowley wouldn't change that about him for the world.

Nevertheless… "You ought to take better care of your wings, angel. At the very least, you'll be more comfortable if you groom all the loose feathers out. They itch if you leave them in too long."

"Why should I?" Aziraphale mumbled into his pillow. "S'not like I have any uniform inspections coming up anytime soon."

_Thank Somebody for that_. "Well, then. I guess you'll have me to preen them for you," Crowley said, a bit thickly. A lump had unexpectedly formed in his throat.

Aziraphale's only response was a quiet snore. His wings lay limp and heavy over the bedsheets, but one lifted slightly to blanket Crowley in soft white feathers when he curled up at the angel's side.

"Sleep well, angel," Crowley said quietly, closing his eyes. Meanwhile, somewhere out in the ether, beyond the boundaries of the physical world, the silver wings of a demon stretched wide and fluttered.

* * *

**A/N: **Wasn't expecting to continue this, but here we are. Third and final chapter will be going up soon!


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